Bye Again

So closes another blogbuster. (I just go by how small the slider gets on the side.) I've got work to do on my tunes anyways. Piling up the arrangements here. One thing at a time. See ya next post. Different blog title. Same blog channel.
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© 2010. Statements by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Medical Alert

Can someone help me? I need to know if I have a guitar cramp. All my guitar friends are too far away right now. Is a guitar cramp when you touch the tip of your thumb against a surface and it feels suddenly as if someone has taken pliers and pulled off your thumb and all the attached ligament and tissue extending up to your spine? Ever so briefly? Is it from not playing the guitar enough? Please. I need someone to tell me. I don't trust this damn internet where they let guys like me answer the question.
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East of Eton

I've lived in the same building now for four years. Seen a lot of tenants come and go. But I have a good location within my building. I have a corner suite. The patio has been unused since my last room mate left, but it's pretty decent. Very private. Why, you could scream your head off out there and no one would even notice. And I'm not joking. Very wide cross section of people here. But we know we're high class by our street names. Like Oxford Street and Wall Street and Eton Street. And we have both the Waldorf and the Astoria hotels in the vicinity. I've been lucky so far with the latest arrivals to my building. On one side the young Chinese couple I heard through my bedroom wall every night for a year and a half mercifully departed. I put up with a lot of crashing and slamming. And laughing and grunting. Then, yes, sometimes, the sound of me flipping and shouting and smashing - but I can do that all by myself! If it really bothered me I might go right to their door and yell something like, 'Hey! Wear some knee pads in there!' But they are gone. The tenant on my other side also changed. But I had no problems on that side. And I continue to live comfortably with the tenant over there (from over here.) And the new one in the bedroom wall is very considerate, I think. And they all have pleasant voices. I have chosen a smaller building to avoid the usual problems with other tenants. Anything under twenty units seems humane to me. Last year we changed to a new floor here. I helped out in my suite. Looks great. My mailbox is broken and I don't care any more. I'm just letting it jam and jam now. And I hope it swells up and starts breaking the other mailboxes. Until they fix my mailbox.
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I Have Feelings!

I might need to be taken seriously at some point because much of what I share is based on real life experiences. Refusing to candy-coat or bullshit can sometimes have the effect of looking wild and imaginary. I once submitted a resume that listed all my real occupations as accurately as I could. Used for comedy material. I shared troubling memories that could be backed up by witnesses. Comedy material. Opinions. Comedy. Observations. Comedy. Walking down the street with a blank expression. Comedy. I don't care if everyone doesn't find it hilarious. (I heard laughter. I'm not crazy. I heard unmistakable mirth.) If it makes you feel good to laugh, then do. I'm not a comedian. I receive no financial compensation for my laugh getting. I only ever started out by trying to be honest. We laugh at the absurd. And life is absurd if you're paying attention. And my stories are largely true, taken from real life. My life. Whatever the case might be, I'm not laughing about it. Not very much anyway. And I tried posting an image of my face so you could all see how emotionally devastated I look now, but I can't upload it here for some reason. It probably wants to wait so it can upload behind my back and make a fool of me. Everyone's against me!
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© 2010. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Par for the Nurse

I'm glad I injured myself. Have some time off. It's a serious injury. My four-foot vertical leap has been reduced by one big toe and a little pinky that went wee-wee all the way home. That's what happens when you hurt your knee bone. Your knee bone's connected to your foot bone. (By way of the leg bone, of course.) Getting hurt goes with the job. I was watching this gawky looking, white guy pulling a humongous fridge up these stairs the other day. He was pulling it up backwards and not looking behind him. Then, when he got to the top, there was another stairwell to his rear, leading downwards. After that I only saw the fridge. I have some fond memories of being off school, in the hospital as a child. That's when I got into reading science fiction - but only the very best. Plus I was an excellent jigsaw puzzle assembler. Seemed to me I was wasting my time in class with all those great hospital activities I could have been doing. And nurses can't give you a detention because you're already spending the night there! I get along well with nurses. If they need me to undress or anything, I know it's for the best. They are truly creatures of compassion and beauty - though the hottest ones seem to be reserved for the patients with the most serious needs. I understand this and I'm all for it. I'm afraid I like the food there, too. I don't know why. The meals of institutions appeal to me. I like the tray and the plastic cup with the handle. Those deserts are tasty. Pies and puddings. But, above all, I like mashed potatoes. And hospitals and other institutions just seem to know how to make their mashed potatoes extra creamy. All this means is that if you see me limping by, wave 'Gidday!'; but if you see me decathaloning my way to the corner store a few minutes later, turn your head and remain silent.
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In the Jeans

My father's a mix of Liverpool English and Polish Polish. The name is said to translate directly into the English word, 'ignite.' (Which I prefer to 'sparkle.' Too Liberace sounding.) My mom's name is interesting, too. It's from Ireland, but Norman. I've been trying to trace where the music came from. And my friend told me I had Cossack blood, too. So I figure the rock sound comes from the Cossacks, as well as the Normans, who were originally French Vikings. My visual art skills are said to have roots in the Polish side of me. I suspect that if they had beagles in Poland, Snoopy would have pranced around with his nose in the air in Polish. Lyrics would be the Irish blood, I'm guessing. Alcohol would be a combination of the Polish and the Irish.
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Seen

I should compensate the local art scene a little for cracking those jokes. We have a very lively art culture in Vancouver, with plenty of venues. Whether attending or performing, you're guaranteed a good time. And top notch service from the friendliest darn staff in the whole wide world. They never threw coffee or beer on me. Ever. And they always have cute smiles.
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Wrong

I remember the time I worked as a test subject for right-handed males. Since I'm right-handed, I qualified. (Seem to be leaning more towards ambidextrous, though, ever since then for some reason.) We had to look at these words and symbols and make snap decisions about them. They were multiple choice and they told you the score afterwards. And for me I remember I wanted a high score. I wanted the highest score. And when it sounded like I didn't get that, I'm sure my disappointment was impossible to hide from them. They made good on their promise of twenty bucks - after I wrote the test asking if I hear voices.
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That's Wright

I just realized I like the smell of freshly shaved pencil shavings. I'm not sure why. The graphite seems to mingle with the wood in a most complimentary way. When you sharpen a pencil, you shave off its exterior and release its inner personality on the whole room. And you might be overcome by a compulsion to reconstruct the Wright Brothers' plane out of toothpicks and balsa wood and carpenter's glue, while sending a friend off to buy up Cracker Jacks in search of the engine and propellers.
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Good Bus, Bad Bus

Sometimes I'm on a good bus, but other times I'm on a bad bus. The good bus shows up right on time. Sometimes it's even coming around the corner just as you step off your first bus. You see it behind you and you're all happy and you might even say, 'All right!' to yourself. The bad bus is coming. Just hang in there. Can't be much longer. Try walking out into the middle of traffic again to get a better look. Nope. Darn! Oh well, back to the bus stop. Kinda feel like stretching out. I guess that's impossible the way they've put this barbed wire on the bench. Oh, maybe I'll try the sidewalk. When you step on a good bus, the attractive bus driver greets you warmly, you take your transfer and stroll merrily to one of many comfortable options - leaning towards those which give you a decent view of the cheer leading team, all tuckered out from practice. When you force your way onto a bad bus, a stranger's backside greets you as you struggle to reach the fare box. It takes your money, but a kid climbs over everyone's head and steals your transfer. Then the driver starts power tripping with the P.A. (I do the same thing with my hall echo reverb. You can sound quite convincing while declaring yourself to be various gods. I find 'Noseoples' a very effective name to invoke once in a while. But the driver says:) 'Move to the back of the bus. Never mind where you are going. Sir, there's plenty of room under your armpit if you hold that car battery with one hand. Ma'am, just jump up on your friend there. Pile in, everyone! SCHNELL! SCHNELL!' Plus it smells bad.
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Signs of Intelligence

You apocalypse theorists, you need to keep your eye on one other thing; disgruntled former deities. They've had ages to plot their revenge and to get back at humanity for letting their private parts fall into disrepair. Jupiter, yes, he's one of them. Saturn's planning another hoola-hoop craze. Baal's just about ready to go ballistic. You better watch it. Their symbols are all going to join forces in one omnipotent game show.
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Davy Headbanger

When I get feeling frustrated, I hit my head on something. It lets you dull your senses a bit; meet the damage of a couple rum drinks. There's a certain area near the front, through the alley, up the emergency staircase - watch that last step. It's the part of the brain that controls righteous indignation. Slam it hard a good few times. Not too hard. If you draw blood, don't worry. Chances are it was just something poking out from the surface you weren't able to see, from accidentally hitting the part of your brain that controls vision on an earlier occasion.
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Flying Low

There's a fly in here who has lived past its time. Its buzz has a kind of wheezing quality, is much lower in tone, and it repeatedly crashes itself into various surfaces. The last time it slammed itself into my bookcase, it fell backwards to the floor, sputtered back up again and looked over at me in misery.
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Messed by My Hair

I don't want to hear any more about high marks and low marks and passing grades. I got bad grades. Even when I went beyond the call I couldn't get the best grade. No. That prize always went to someone else. Someone with better hair. It's not fair, dammit! If I just would have left that widow's peak alone. Not tried to shave it off, so when it grew back it stuck out like a slinky in the front of my head.
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Why Claudius

The series, I, Claudius, offers both entertainment and knowledge. I missed it when it first ran on public television. While it was clear that the entire thing was, in fact, taking place on a stage from start to finish (Recordings of angry mobs are, nonetheless, used well.), the story is still very interesting and the acting is first rate. I'm fond of ancient history, so maybe I'm a bit biased. Claudius was my favourite out of his line. If you watch the series, you'll see why. You'll see how it often pays to have the appearance of a harmless half-wit when your family members are all dropping around you prematurely. And how Claudius learned what happens if you push the people too far, by the violent deaths of both Tiberius, who I can picture being smothered with a pillow, and Caligula, who almost cost Claudius his own life. The author, Robert Graves, very skillfully summarized Claudius's place in history with a scene from the emperor's childhood. A wounded wolf cub fell into the boy's arms in front of a soothsayer, who was able to decipher the event. The wolf, a symbol of Rome, was wounded and at Claudius's mercy. By the time Claudius's predecessors to the throne were through, Rome was in sorry shape. Caligula, in particular, did a real number on it, using the navy to attack sea shells and such. (But I liked his appointing of a horse to the Senate.) There's something for Christians, too, with the first half of the story extending from Augustus to Tiberius - round about the time Pilate was working in Judea. The production appears to have the feint handprint of the English on it. Could also be British. That scene near the end where a conquered British lord refuses to bow to Claudius and gets away with it probably really happened. And if all that isn't enough, Patrick Stewart has curly hair. But his helmet would ultimately win that battle. May 2015: Oops! Apparently that conquered British general named Caractacus really did speak his mind and was granted his freedom by Claudius. Sorry for the error.
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What's Up With the Timpani?

News music is usually the most horrible sounding, generic super-crap that ever made up the soundtrack to my worst nightmares, but a couple news programs are not bad musically. I like the ones that throw in bits of songs. They should do that more often.
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Bad Memories/Wrongful Dismissal

I recall the time I was banned from the workplace for discussing Plato's Republic. It was taken as verbal sexual harassment. I did not bring it up. Someone had a thought about philosophy and off I went. I'm like Fred Flinstone when he hears the word 'bet' except more unpredictable. I can not help myself. Honestly. So I got as far as mentioning how Plato was ahead of his time on the co-ed showers and such. (Check out some European countries if you don't believe me.) Next thing you know I'm banned. And I'm sure the time I flipped out and attacked those chairs while threatening suicide had nothing at all to do with it.
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The Hills Are Dead

I still complain about the music I'm forced to hear every day. Probably always will. But it does seems to be improving marginally. Sometimes it's even pretty good. Just depends on the circumstances. When I'm shopping for something uniquely personal, I sometimes find the music quite good. Sometimes it even sounds like my own album...exactly like my own album. But when I'm at the mall, I find the music almost toxically oppressive. Being at the mall makes me feel small. It makes me feel like I'm a little fluffy tailed little sheep coming out to graze with my flock. If department store employees had any rights, I'm sure they'd demand optional ear plugs. Some workers treat music as an escape route from drudgery; almost like a TV with no screen. I once worked in a plant with loud machinery going all the time. The tunes were 'cranked up' so we could hear it over the awful grinding and scraping. The end of the world would be easier on the ears.
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